


These Inconvenient Fireworks

by SuburbanSun



Series: puzzle pieces [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Dawning Attraction, F/M, Slow Build, Talk of Sex Dreams, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3106148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuburbanSun/pseuds/SuburbanSun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma Simmons is in deep.</p><p>Ever since Skye put the idea in her head, she’s been letting her little thought experiment play out. Which means she’s been thinking about Fitz. And her. Together. In a myriad of compromising positions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Inconvenient Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> A follow-up to The Last Piece, the first one in this series. The notes there apply-- this takes place sometime after S2E10, but kind of ignores its more yikes-worthy storylines.

Jemma Simmons is in deep.

Ever since Skye put the idea in her head, she’s been letting her little thought experiment play out. Which means she’s been thinking about Fitz. And her. Together. In a myriad of compromising positions.

This may have been meant to make things easier, but she’s certain it’s having the opposite effect.

“Earth to Simmons. Come in, Simmons.”

Her head snaps up when she hears Hunter’s voice beside her. She’s leaning back against the refrigerator in the kitchen, palms flat against the cool steel, and she may have been idly watching Fitz prepare tea at the counter for the past several minutes, but she can’t be sure. “Sorry, Lance. Am I in the way?”

“Pity the bird who gets between a man and his sandwich, am I right, Fitz?”

Jemma slides over to lean against the countertop, a few feet closer to Fitz, who chuckles at Hunter’s comment. He offers Jemma a small smile, passing her a full cup of tea prepared just as she likes it.

“You know, Bobbi never once made me a sandwich. Not the entire time we were married, can you believe it?” Hunter begins to pull condiments out of the fridge, but Jemma’s already tuned him out, focused narrowly on Fitz. She accepts the tea from him gratefully, and her fingers just graze his as he hands it off. She hopes he doesn’t notice that she almost bobbles the cup, tea nearly sloshing over the sides as she brings it up to her mouth to sip.

“Thank you, Fitz.”

“You’re welcome, Jemma.” She drinks slowly, eyes still trained on him as he takes a sip from his own cup. Her eyes flit from his face to his hands, appreciatively noticing the way the long fingers grip the ceramic.

“Not ham and swiss. Not grilled cheese. Not even a PB&J for Christ’s sake. Should’ve seen the divorce coming when there wasn’t a drop of jam in the house.”

Oblivious to Jemma’s gaze, Fitz notices a drop of tea on the side of his thumb. He brings it up to his mouth and sucks it off, lips just grazing it. She thinks she might have seen a hint of tongue, but her brain feels too fuzzy to tell for sure.

“Jemma?”

“Hmm?”

“Your-- your tea.”

“Oh!” She realizes belatedly that her teacup has been listing forward in her hands, and a trickle of tea has just started to spill onto the floor. “Sorry! I was dist-- I wasn’t paying attention.” She grabs a dish towel from the countertop, setting her cup down and kneeling to wipe up the mess, hoping that Fitz remains blissfully unaware of her growing blush. But truly, how can she be expected to keep herself in check when he drinks his tea like _that_?

Once she feels that the evidence of her embarrassment is gone from her face, she stands and replaces the towel on the counter. Fitz is watching her, bemused. She offers him a weak smile and picks up her teacup, hiding behind it and trying to banish thoughts of Fitz’s fingers and lips and tongue from her mind entirely. For now, anyway. She takes a long sip, and they’re both silent for the moment.

“Take it from me, Fitz. Marry a woman who’ll make you a damn sandwich. That’s the true test.”

Fitz chokes on his tea, coughing, looking up at the ceiling, seemingly to avoid looking anywhere else. Jemma just drains the rest of her tea, wishing she could melt right into the floor, mug and all.

 

 

 

She’s able to successfully think about other things for the next several hours. She works in the lab, completely focused on the task at hand. Objectively, she knows that he’s nearby in the garage, and probably performing some task that would set her mind off on a brand new tangent, but she’s always been able to lose herself in science, and her current project is no exception.

She slides a pair of goggles onto her face, carefully measuring out a beakerful of orange liquid, when Bobbi peeks into the lab.

“Hey Simmons?”

“Hmm?” She keeps her eyes on her equipment until she’s poured the precise amount dictated by her notes, then looks up at Bobbi expectantly.

“One of the Koenigs needs us for a few minutes. The new tactical gear came in, and we have to make sure everything’s right.”

Jemma follows Bobbi down the hall to the wardrobe room, where a few of the others are already trying on thick black pants and tactical vests.

“Good, you’re here,” says a Koenig when he notices them. “Find the box with your badge number on it and make sure what’s inside matches the inventory sheet. If anything doesn’t fit properly, make a note on the sheet and initial it.”

“This one’s you,” Bobbi says, pushing a box toward where Jemma stands. She kneels and begins to go through it, pulling out the sturdy articles of black clothing one at a time. Then as if she can sense his presence, she looks up just as Fitz enters the room.

He must have come down from the garage before she did, because he’s already changed into his full tactical gear, and is pulling on his gloves as he walks through the door. On her knees beside her stack of clothing, Jemma can’t help but give him a full once-over, eyes slowly roving up his body to his face, then back down again.

She knows that she should associate Fitz in tactical gear with danger. With missions that too frequently go awry. With feeling worried sick that he won’t make it back in one piece.

But right now, all the jolt in her low belly tells her is that Fitz in tactical gear is  _hot._

He’s adjusting the buckles on his vest, pulling it tight against his body, and sliding his thumb beneath it at his chest to make sure it’s the proper fit. From what she can tell, it’s _definitely_ a good fit.

“Might want to close your mouth,” comes a quiet voice to her right. She turns to see Bobbi crouching down beside her, looking amused.

“I wasn’t--” Jemma begins to protest, but Bobbi’s expression makes it clear that there’s no point.

“They do look pretty damn good in that gear, don’t they?” Bobbi’s gaze flits to where Hunter is pulling on his own vest. “But turnabout’s fair play,” she says, standing up and shaking her long blonde hair out of its ponytail. “Suit up before he heads back to the garage and show him how hot you look.”

Jemma blushes proudly, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, I don’t-- I mean, compared to you, I--” She then notices Fitz beginning to unbuckle his vest. “But yes. Smart thinking.”

 _Two can play this game_ , she thinks, shedding her lab coat. She only hopes Fitz is paying attention.

 

 

 

It's bad enough when thoughts of Fitz drive her to distraction during waking hours, but it’s worse when they keep her up at night. When she had given herself permission to think about him in a sexual manner outside of the dreams she couldn't control, she hadn’t realized that it would be like a dam had broken in her mind.

Lying awake in bed thinking about Fitz’s hands roaming her body isn’t going to help lull her back to sleep, she realizes. But a glass of water might. Or a cup of tea. So she slides out from under the covers and pads her way to the kitchen, barefoot and still in her pajama shorts and tank top, certain no one else could be awake at this unholy hour.

The kitchen is empty, dark and quiet. She doesn’t turn on the main lights, preferring instead to let the glow from the appliance clocks and the dim emergency lights in the corners of the room illuminate her way.

She fills a glass with water from the fridge door, then drinks it down. The cool water helps to slightly abate the swirl of thoughts that fill her head and overheat her skin. She fills it up again, contemplating tea.  

The sound of a cleared throat jars her from her thoughts, and she looks up to see Fitz standing at the entrance to the kitchen. He’s wearing a pair of blue plaid flannel pants slung low on his hips and a navy t-shirt she vaguely recognizes. It’s worn and soft-looking and she can’t help but notice how well it fits him.

His hair manages to stick up everywhere, the curls still unruly despite how short he wears it now. He’s squinting, like even the dim light is too much for his sleepy eyes.

 _Goodness, he looks sexy when he wakes up_ , she thinks, unable to stop herself. “Fitz. Hi,” she says instead.

It’s not that she’s never seen him just out of bed with messy hair and rumpled clothes. She’d gotten used to the sight during their Academy days, and during their time at SciOps. Once they’d been assigned to the Bus, he’d tended to try for a more professional look outside of his bunk, but she’d still caught glimpses of him like this when they’d share late-night tea or watch episodes of Doctor Who into the wee hours.

The difference is that she’d always thought he looked adorable like this, all disheveled and sleepy. Now, she can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to wake up next to him like this, cuddled up to those soft pajamas that she might subsequently remove. And it’s causing her to stare at him for far too long as he stands there at the kitchen door.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

She shakes her head, both to answer his question and attempt to clear her mind. “Not really, no. Would you like some tea? I was about to make some.”

He nods and takes a few steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as she fills the kettle. “What’s keeping you up? If-- if you don’t mind my asking.”

Jemma’s glad she’s got the tea kettle to busy herself with so he can’t see her furious blush. “Oh, you know me. Just thinking too much.”

“I know what you mean. Sometimes it’s too hard to sleep.”

Her eyes widen and she coughs at that. “Yes. Hard.” She winces, tapping her fingers nervously against the counter as she waits for the water to boil.

“Yeah. Also, d’you think Koenig’s been messing with the thermostat again? It’s kind of hot in my bunk.”

“Is it?” Her voice sounds unnaturally high, and she takes a shuddering breath. _Get ahold of yourself, Jemma._ She turns away from him, opening the cabinet door to search for a pair of mugs.

“Yeah. How about in yours? D’you feel hot?”

She shoots a look at him over her shoulder, thinking surely at this point he must be messing with her, but there’s no trace of mischief in his eyes. She turns back to the cabinet to answer. “Um. A bit warm, yeah.” Scanning the shelves, she doesn’t find what she’s looking for. “Drat. No mugs. They must all be in there,” she says, gesturing at the dishwasher as it hums gently, clearly running.

“Oh, I think there are some extras in the cabinet above the stove,” offers Fitz. “I’ll check.” He crosses to the stove, looking pleased to be of use as he reaches up to open the high cabinet. She watches as he moves. She can see the muscles in his back shifting beneath the nearly threadbare t-shirt, and when it rides up to expose a strip of pale skin at his hip, she can feel herself gawping, mind racing. The kettle begins to whistle, jolting her out of her daze just as he turns with a set of mugs. “Here.”

She takes them gratefully, unable to thank him because her mouth is too dry and she’s afraid of what she might say even if she _did_ try to speak. She focuses on making two cups of tea the way they each like it and hands his to him, pointedly avoiding brushing his fingers with her own this time.

They lean against the counter beside each other, sipping their tea in companionable silence… if one companion wants to do wicked things to the other, that is.

“Thanks, Jemma,” Fitz says, setting his empty mug in the sink. “I’ll see you in the morning?” He looks hopeful, as if it isn’t a guarantee, and it makes her heart clench.

“It’s already morning, technically.”

His eyes flit to the clock on the stove and he chuckles. “So it is. See you soon, then.”

She nods and smiles warmly, placing her own mug in the sink beside his.

“Sweet dreams, Jemma,” he mumbles with a little wave, right before exiting for his bunk. She leans back against the countertop for a moment, letting out a deep breath.

 _Sweet dreams_ , she thinks. _If only he knew._

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Stray Italian Greyhound” by Vienna Teng, the lyrics of which are even more befitting of Fitz when he started to develop feelings for Jemma, but really work both ways.
> 
> Want to chat on Tumblr? I'm unbreakablejemmasimmons over there!


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